It has been mentioned that at Bournemouth Julia sometimes made
acquaintances; it is true she had but a glimpse of them before the
doors of John Street closed again upon its captives, but the glimpse
was sometimes exhilarating, and the consequent regret was tempered
with hope. Among those whom she had thus met a year before was a young
barrister of the name of Gideon Forsyth.
About three o’clock of the eventful day when the magistrate tampered
with the labels, a somewhat moody and distempered ramble had carried
Mr Forsyth to the corner of John Street; and about the same moment Miss
Hazeltine was called to the door of No. 16 by a thundering double knock.
Mr Gideon Forsyth was a happy enough young man; he would have been
happier if he had had more money and less uncle. One hundred and
twenty pounds a year was all his store; but his uncle, Mr Edward Hugh
Bloomfield, supplemented this with a handsome allowance and a great
deal of advice, couched in language that would probably have been judged
intemperate on board a pirate ship. Mr Bloomfield was indeed a figure
quite peculiar to the days of Mr Gladstone; what we may call (for the
lack of an accepted expression) a Squirradical. Having acquired years
without experience, he carried into the Radical side of politics those
noisy, after-dinner-table passions, which we are more accustomed to
connect with Toryism in its severe and senile aspects. To the opinions
of Mr Bradlaugh, in fact, he added the temper and the sympathies of that
extinct animal, the Squire; he admired pugilism, he carried a formidable
oaken staff, he was a reverent churchman, and it was hard to know which
would have more volcanically stirred his choler--a person who should
have defended the established church, or one who should have neglected
to attend its celebrations. He had besides some levelling catchwords,
justly dreaded in the family circle; and when he could not go so far
as to declare a step un-English, he might still (and with hardly less
effect) denounce it as unpractical. It was under the ban of this lesser
excommunication that Gideon had fallen. His views on the study of law
had been pronounced unpractical; and it had been intimated to him, in
a vociferous interview punctuated with the oaken staff, that he must
either take a new start and get a brief or two, or prepare to live on
his own money.
No wonder if Gideon was moody. He had not the slightest wish to modify
his present habits; but he would not stand on that, since the recall of
Mr Bloomfield’s allowance would revolutionize them still more radically.
He had not the least desire to acquaint himself with law; he had looked
into it already, and it seemed not to repay attention; but upon this
also he was ready to give way. In fact, he would go as far as he could
to meet the views of his uncle, the Squirradical. But there was one part
of the programme that appeared independent of his will. How to get
a brief? there was the question. And there was another and a worse.
Suppose he got one, should he prove the better man?
Suddenly he found his way barred by a crowd. A garishly illuminated van
was backed against the kerb; from its open stern, half resting on the
street, half supported by some glistening athletes, the end of the
largest packing-case in the county of Middlesex might have been seen
protruding; while, on the steps of the house, the burly person of
the driver and the slim figure of a young girl stood as upon a stage,
disputing.
‘It is not for us,’ the girl was saying. ‘I beg you to take it away; it
couldn’t get into the house, even if you managed to get it out of the
van.’
‘I shall leave it on the pavement, then, and M. Finsbury can arrange
with the Vestry as he likes,’ said the vanman.
‘But I am not M. Finsbury,’ expostulated the girl.
‘It doesn’t matter who you are,’ said the vanman.
‘You must allow me to help you, Miss Hazeltine,’ said Gideon, putting
out his hand.
Julia gave a little cry of pleasure. ‘O, Mr Forsyth,’ she cried, ‘I am
so glad to see you; we must get this horrid thing, which can only have
come here by mistake, into the house. The man says we’ll have to take
off the door, or knock two of our windows into one, or be fined by
the Vestry or Custom House or something for leaving our parcels on the
pavement.’
The men by this time had successfully removed the box from the van, had
plumped it down on the pavement, and now stood leaning against it, or
gazing at the door of No. 16, in visible physical distress and mental
embarrassment. The windows of the whole street had filled, as if by
magic, with interested and entertained spectators.
With as thoughtful and scientific an expression as he could assume,
Gideon measured the doorway with his cane, while Julia entered his
observations in a drawing-book. He then measured the box, and, upon
comparing his data, found that there was just enough space for it to
enter. Next, throwing off his coat and waistcoat, he assisted the men to
take the door from its hinges. And lastly, all bystanders being pressed
into the service, the packing-case mounted the steps upon some
fifteen pairs of wavering legs--scraped, loudly grinding, through the
doorway--and was deposited at length, with a formidable convulsion, in
the far end of the lobby, which it almost blocked. The artisans of this
victory smiled upon each other as the dust subsided. It was true they
had smashed a bust of Apollo and ploughed the wall into deep ruts; but,
at least, they were no longer one of the public spectacles of London.
‘Well, sir,’ said the vanman, ‘I never see such a job.’
Gideon eloquently expressed his concurrence in this sentiment by
pressing a couple of sovereigns in the man’s hand.
‘Make it three, sir, and I’ll stand Sam to everybody here!’ cried the
latter, and, this having been done, the whole body of volunteer porters
swarmed into the van, which drove off in the direction of the nearest
reliable public-house. Gideon closed the door on their departure, and
turned to Julia; their eyes met; the most uncontrollable mirth seized
upon them both, and they made the house ring with their laughter. Then
curiosity awoke in Julia’s mind, and she went and examined the box, and
more especially the label.
‘This is the strangest thing that ever happened,’ she said, with another
burst of laughter. ‘It is certainly Morris’s handwriting, and I had a
letter from him only this morning, telling me to expect a barrel. Is
there a barrel coming too, do you think, Mr Forsyth?’
“‘Statuary with Care, Fragile,’” read Gideon aloud from the painted
warning on the box. ‘Then you were told nothing about this?’
‘No,’ responded Julia. ‘O, Mr Forsyth, don’t you think we might take a
peep at it?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ cried Gideon. ‘Just let me have a hammer.’
‘Come down, and I’ll show you where it is,’ cried Julia. ‘The shelf is
too high for me to reach’; and, opening the door of the kitchen stair,
she bade Gideon follow her. They found both the hammer and a chisel;
but Gideon was surprised to see no sign of a servant. He also discovered
that Miss Hazeltine had a very pretty little foot and ankle; and the
discovery embarrassed him so much that he was glad to fall at once upon
the packing-case.
He worked hard and earnestly, and dealt his blows with the precision
of a blacksmith; Julia the while standing silently by his side, and
regarding rather the workman than the work. He was a handsome fellow;
she told herself she had never seen such beautiful arms. And suddenly,
as though he had overheard these thoughts, Gideon turned and smiled to
her. She, too, smiled and coloured; and the double change became her
so prettily that Gideon forgot to turn away his eyes, and, swinging the
hammer with a will, discharged a smashing blow on his own knuckles. With
admirable presence of mind he crushed down an oath and substituted the
harmless comment, ‘Butter fingers!’ But the pain was sharp, his nerve
was shaken, and after an abortive trial he found he must desist from
further operations.
In a moment Julia was off to the pantry; in a moment she was back again
with a basin of water and a sponge, and had begun to bathe his wounded
hand.
‘I am dreadfully sorry!’ said Gideon apologetically. ‘If I had had
any manners I should have opened the box first and smashed my hand
afterward. It feels much better,’ he added. ‘I assure you it does.’
‘And now I think you are well enough to direct operations,’ said she.
‘Tell me what to do, and I’ll be your workman.’
‘A very pretty workman,’ said Gideon, rather forgetting himself.
She turned and looked at him, with a suspicion of a frown; and
the indiscreet young man was glad to direct her attention to the
packing-case. The bulk of the work had been accomplished; and presently
Julia had burst through the last barrier and disclosed a zone of straw.
in a moment they were kneeling side by side, engaged like haymakers; the
next they were rewarded with a glimpse of something white and polished;
and the next again laid bare an unmistakable marble leg.
‘He is surely a very athletic person,’ said Julia.
‘I never saw anything like it,’ responded Gideon. ‘His muscles stand out
like penny rolls.’
Another leg was soon disclosed, and then what seemed to be a third. This
resolved itself, however, into a knotted club resting upon a pedestal.
‘It is a Hercules,’ cried Gideon; ‘I might have guessed that from his
calf. I’m supposed to be rather partial to statuary, but when it comes
to Hercules, the police should interfere. I should say,’ he added,
glancing with disaffection at the swollen leg, ‘that this was about the
biggest and the worst in Europe. What in heaven’s name can have induced
him to come here?’
‘I suppose nobody else would have a gift of him,’ said Julia. ‘And for
that matter, I think we could have done without the monster very well.’
‘O, don’t say that,’ returned Gideon. ‘This has been one of the most
amusing experiences of my life.’
‘I don’t think you’ll forget it very soon,’ said Julia. ‘Your hand will
remind you.’
‘Well, I suppose I must be going,’ said Gideon reluctantly. ‘No,’
pleaded Julia. ‘Why should you? Stay and have tea with me.’
‘If I thought you really wished me to stay,’ said Gideon, looking at his
hat, ‘of course I should only be too delighted.’
‘What a silly person you must take me for!’ returned the girl. ‘Why, of
course I do; and, besides, I want some cakes for tea, and I’ve nobody to
send. Here is the latchkey.’
Gideon put on his hat with alacrity, and casting one look at Miss
Hazeltine, and another at the legs of Hercules, threw open the door and
departed on his errand.
He returned with a large bag of the choicest and most tempting of cakes
and tartlets, and found Julia in the act of spreading a small tea-table
in the lobby.
‘The rooms are all in such a state,’ she cried, ‘that I thought we
should be more cosy and comfortable in our own lobby, and under our own
vine and statuary.’
‘Ever so much better,’ cried Gideon delightedly.
‘O what adorable cream tarts!’ said Julia, opening the bag, ‘and the
dearest little cherry tartlets, with all the cherries spilled out into
the cream!’
‘Yes,’ said Gideon, concealing his dismay, ‘I knew they would mix
beautifully; the woman behind the counter told me so.’
‘Now,’ said Julia, as they began their little festival, ‘I am going
to show you Morris’s letter; read it aloud, please; perhaps there’s
something I have missed.’
Gideon took the letter, and spreading it out on his knee, read as
follows:
DEAR JULIA, I write you from Browndean, where we are stopping over for
a few days. Uncle was much shaken in that dreadful accident, of which,
I dare say, you have seen the account. Tomorrow I leave him here with
John, and come up alone; but before that, you will have received a
barrel CONTAINING SPECIMENS FOR A FRIEND. Do not open it on any account,
but leave it in the lobby till I come.
Yours in haste,
M. FINSBURY.
P.S.--Be sure and leave the barrel in the lobby.
‘No,’ said Gideon, ‘there seems to be nothing about the monument,’
and he nodded, as he spoke, at the marble legs. ‘Miss Hazeltine,’ he
continued, ‘would you mind me asking a few questions?’
‘Certainly not,’ replied Julia; ‘and if you can make me understand why
Morris has sent a statue of Hercules instead of a barrel containing
specimens for a friend, I shall be grateful till my dying day. And what
are specimens for a friend?’
‘I haven’t a guess,’ said Gideon. ‘Specimens are usually bits of stone,
but rather smaller than our friend the monument. Still, that is not the
point. Are you quite alone in this big house?’
‘Yes, I am at present,’ returned Julia. ‘I came up before them to
prepare the house, and get another servant. But I couldn’t get one I
liked.’
‘Then you are utterly alone,’ said Gideon in amazement. ‘Are you not
afraid?’
‘No,’ responded Julia stoutly. ‘I don’t see why I should be more afraid
than you would be; I am weaker, of course, but when I found I must sleep
alone in the house I bought a revolver wonderfully cheap, and made the
man show me how to use it.’
‘And how do you use it?’ demanded Gideon, much amused at her courage.
‘Why,’ said she, with a smile, ‘you pull the little trigger thing on
top, and then pointing it very low, for it springs up as you fire, you
pull the underneath little trigger thing, and it goes off as well as if
a man had done it.’
‘And how often have you used it?’ asked Gideon.
‘O, I have not used it yet,’ said the determined young lady; ‘but I
know how, and that makes me wonderfully courageous, especially when I
barricade my door with a chest of drawers.’
‘I’m awfully glad they are coming back soon,’ said Gideon. ‘This
business strikes me as excessively unsafe; if it goes on much longer,
I could provide you with a maiden aunt of mine, or my landlady if you
preferred.’
‘Lend me an aunt!’ cried Julia. ‘O, what generosity! I begin to think it
must have been you that sent the Hercules.’
‘Believe me,’ cried the young man, ‘I admire you too much to send you
such an infamous work of art..’
Julia was beginning to reply, when they were both startled by a knocking
at the door.
‘O, Mr Forsyth!’
‘Don’t be afraid, my dear girl,’ said Gideon, laying his hand tenderly
on her arm.
‘I know it’s the police,’ she whispered. ‘They are coming to complain
about the statue.’
The knock was repeated. It was louder than before, and more impatient.
‘It’s Morris,’ cried Julia, in a startled voice, and she ran to the door
and opened it.
It was indeed Morris that stood before them; not the Morris of ordinary
days, but a wild-looking fellow, pale and haggard, with bloodshot eyes,
and a two-days’ beard upon his chin.
‘The barrel!’ he cried. ‘Where’s the barrel that came this morning?’
And he stared about the lobby, his eyes, as they fell upon the legs of
Hercules, literally goggling in his head. ‘What is that?’ he screamed.
‘What is that waxwork? Speak, you fool! What is that? And where’s the
barrel--the water-butt?’
‘No barrel came, Morris,’ responded Julia coldly. ‘This is the only
thing that has arrived.’
‘This!’ shrieked the miserable man. ‘I never heard of it!’
‘It came addressed in your hand,’ replied Julia; ‘we had nearly to pull
the house down to get it in, that is all that I can tell you.’
Morris gazed at her in utter bewilderment. He passed his hand over his
forehead; he leaned against the wall like a man about to faint. Then his
tongue was loosed, and he overwhelmed the girl with torrents of abuse.
Such fire, such directness, such a choice of ungentlemanly language,
none had ever before suspected Morris to possess; and the girl trembled
and shrank before his fury.
‘You shall not speak to Miss Hazeltine in that way,’ said Gideon
sternly. ‘It is what I will not suffer.’
‘I shall speak to the girl as I like,’ returned Morris, with a fresh
outburst of anger. ‘I’ll speak to the hussy as she deserves.’
‘Not a word more, sir, not one word,’ cried Gideon. ‘Miss Hazeltine,’ he
continued, addressing the young girl, ‘you cannot stay a moment longer
in the same house with this unmanly fellow. Here is my arm; let me take
you where you will be secure from insult.’
‘Mr Forsyth,’ returned Julia, ‘you are right; I cannot stay here longer,
and I am sure I trust myself to an honourable gentleman.’
Pale and resolute, Gideon offered her his arm, and the pair descended
the steps, followed by Morris clamouring for the latchkey.
Julia had scarcely handed the key to Morris before an empty hansom drove
smartly into John Street. It was hailed by both men, and as the cabman
drew up his restive horse, Morris made a dash into the vehicle.
‘Sixpence above fare,’ he cried recklessly. ‘Waterloo Station for your
life. Sixpence for yourself!’
‘Make it a shilling, guv’ner,’ said the man, with a grin; ‘the other
parties were first.’
‘A shilling then,’ cried Morris, with the inward reflection that he
would reconsider it at Waterloo. The man whipped up his horse, and the
hansom vanished from John Street.
CHAPTER VI. The Tribulations of Morris: Part the First
As the hansom span through the streets of London, Morris sought to
rally the forces of his mind. The water-butt with the dead body had
miscarried, and it was essential to recover it. So much was clear; and
if, by some blest good fortune, it was still at the station, all might
be well. If it had been sent out, however, if it were already in the
hands of some wrong person, matters looked more ominous. People who
receive unexplained packages are usually keen to have them open; the
example of Miss Hazeltine (whom he cursed again) was there to remind him
of the circumstance; and if anyone had opened the water-butt--‘O Lord!’
cried Morris at the thought, and carried his hand to his damp forehead.
The private conception of any breach of law is apt to be inspiriting,
for the scheme (while yet inchoate) wears dashing and attractive
colours. Not so in the least that part of the criminal’s later
reflections which deal with the police. That useful corps (as Morris
now began to think) had scarce been kept sufficiently in view when
he embarked upon his enterprise. ‘I must play devilish close,’ he
reflected, and he was aware of an exquisite thrill of fear in the region
of the spine.
‘Main line or loop?’ enquired the cabman, through the scuttle.
‘Main line,’ replied Morris, and mentally decided that the man should
have his shilling after all. ‘It would be madness to attract attention,’
thought he. ‘But what this thing will cost me, first and last, begins to
be a nightmare!’
He passed through the booking-office and wandered disconsolately on the
platform. It was a breathing-space in the day’s traffic. There were
few people there, and these for the most part quiescent on the benches.
Morris seemed to attract no remark, which was a good thing; but, on the
other hand, he was making no progress in his quest. Something must be
done, something must be risked. Every passing instant only added to his
dangers. Summoning all his courage, he stopped a porter, and asked him
if he remembered receiving a barrel by the morning train. He was anxious
to get information, for the barrel belonged to a friend. ‘It is a matter
of some moment,’ he added, ‘for it contains specimens.’
‘I was not here this morning, sir,’ responded the porter, somewhat
reluctantly, ‘but I’ll ask Bill. Do you recollect, Bill, to have got a
barrel from Bournemouth this morning containing specimens?’
‘I don’t know about specimens,’ replied Bill; ‘but the party as received
the barrel I mean raised a sight of trouble.’
‘What’s that?’ cried Morris, in the agitation of the moment pressing a
penny into the man’s hand.
‘You see, sir, the barrel arrived at one-thirty. No one claimed it till
about three, when a small, sickly--looking gentleman (probably a curate)
came up, and sez he, “Have you got anything for Pitman?” or “Wili’m Bent
Pitman,” if I recollect right. “I don’t exactly know,” sez I, “but I
rather fancy that there barrel bears that name.” The little man went
up to the barrel, and seemed regularly all took aback when he saw the
address, and then he pitched into us for not having brought what he
wanted. “I don’t care a damn what you want,” sez I to him, “but if you
are Will’m Bent Pitman, there’s your barrel.”’
‘Well, and did he take it?’ cried the breathless Morris.
‘Well, sir,’ returned Bill, ‘it appears it was a packing-case he was
after. The packing-case came; that’s sure enough, because it was about
the biggest packing-case ever I clapped eyes on. And this Pitman he
seemed a good deal cut up, and he had the superintendent out, and
they got hold of the vanman--him as took the packing-case. Well, sir,’
continued Bill, with a smile, ‘I never see a man in such a state.
Everybody about that van was mortal, bar the horses. Some gen’leman (as
well as I could make out) had given the vanman a sov.; and so that was
where the trouble come in, you see.’
‘But what did he say?’ gasped Morris.
‘I don’t know as he SAID much, sir,’ said Bill. ‘But he offered to
fight this Pitman for a pot of beer. He had lost his book, too, and the
receipts, and his men were all as mortal as himself. O, they were all
like’--and Bill paused for a simile--‘like lords! The superintendent
sacked them on the spot.’
‘O, come, but that’s not so bad,’ said Morris, with a bursting sigh. ‘He
couldn’t tell where he took the packing-case, then?’
‘Not he,’ said Bill, ‘nor yet nothink else.’
‘And what--what did Pitman do?’ asked Morris.
‘O, he went off with the barrel in a four-wheeler, very trembling like,’
replied Bill. ‘I don’t believe he’s a gentleman as has good health.’
‘Well, so the barrel’s gone,’ said Morris, half to himself.
‘You may depend on that, sir,’ returned the porter. ‘But you had better
see the superintendent.’
‘Not in the least; it’s of no account,’ said Morris. ‘It only contained
specimens.’ And he walked hastily away.
Ensconced once more in a hansom, he proceeded to reconsider his
position. Suppose (he thought), suppose he should accept defeat and
declare his uncle’s death at once? He should lose the tontine, and with
that the last hope of his seven thousand eight hundred pounds. But on
the other hand, since the shilling to the hansom cabman, he had begun to
see that crime was expensive in its course, and, since the loss of the
water-butt, that it was uncertain in its consequences. Quietly at first,
and then with growing heat, he reviewed the advantages of backing out.
It involved a loss; but (come to think of it) no such great loss after
all; only that of the tontine, which had been always a toss-up, which
at bottom he had never really expected. He reminded himself of that
eagerly; he congratulated himself upon his constant moderation. He had
never really expected the tontine; he had never even very definitely
hoped to recover his seven thousand eight hundred pounds; he had been
hurried into the whole thing by Michael’s obvious dishonesty. Yes, it
would probably be better to draw back from this high-flying venture,
settle back on the leather business--
‘Great God!’ cried Morris, bounding in the hansom like a Jack-in-a-box.
‘I have not only not gained the tontine--I have lost the leather
business!’
Such was the monstrous fact. He had no power to sign; he could not draw
a cheque for thirty shillings. Until he could produce legal evidence
of his uncle’s death, he was a penniless outcast--and as soon as he
produced it he had lost the tontine! There was no hesitation on the part
of Morris; to drop the tontine like a hot chestnut, to concentrate
all his forces on the leather business and the rest of his small but
legitimate inheritance, was the decision of a single instant. And the
next, the full extent of his calamity was suddenly disclosed to him.
Declare his uncle’s death? He couldn’t! Since the body was lost Joseph
had (in a legal sense) become immortal.
There was no created vehicle big enough to contain Morris and his woes.
He paid the hansom off and walked on he knew not whither.
‘I seem to have gone into this business with too much precipitation,’
he reflected, with a deadly sigh. ‘I fear it seems too ramified for a
person of my powers of mind.’
And then a remark of his uncle’s flashed into his memory: If you want to
think clearly, put it all down on paper. ‘Well, the old boy knew a thing
or two,’ said Morris. ‘I will try; but I don’t believe the paper was
ever made that will clear my mind.’
He entered a place of public entertainment, ordered bread and cheese,
and writing materials, and sat down before them heavily. He tried the
pen. It was an excellent pen, but what was he to write? ‘I have it,’
cried Morris. ‘Robinson Crusoe and the double columns!’ He prepared his
paper after that classic model, and began as follows:
Bad. ---- Good.
1. I have lost my uncle’s body.
1. But then Pitman has found it.
‘Stop a bit,’ said Morris. ‘I am letting the spirit of antithesis run
away with me. Let’s start again.’
Bad. ---- Good.
1. I have lost my uncle’s body.
1. But then I no longer require to bury it.
2. I have lost the tontine.
2.But I may still save that if Pitman disposes of the body, and
if I can find a physician who will stick at nothing.
3. I have lost the leather business and the rest of my uncle’s
succession.
3. But not if Pitman gives the body up to the police.
‘O, but in that case I go to gaol; I had forgot that,’ thought Morris.
‘Indeed, I don’t know that I had better dwell on that hypothesis at all;
it’s all very well to talk of facing the worst; but in a case of this
kind a man’s first duty is to his own nerve. Is there any answer to No.
3? Is there any possible good side to such a beastly bungle? There must
be, of course, or where would be the use of this double-entry business?
And--by George, I have it!’ he exclaimed; ‘it’s exactly the same as the
last!’ And he hastily re-wrote the passage:
Bad. ---- Good.
3. I have lost the leather business and the rest of my uncle’s
succession.
3. But not if I can find a physician who will stick at nothing.
‘This venal doctor seems quite a desideratum,’ he reflected. ‘I want him
first to give me a certificate that my uncle is dead, so that I may get
the leather business; and then that he’s alive--but here we are again at
the incompatible interests!’ And he returned to his tabulation:
Bad. ---- Good.
4. I have almost no money.
4. But there is plenty in the bank.
5. Yes, but I can’t get the money in the bank.
5. But--well, that seems unhappily to be the case.
6. I have left the bill for eight hundred pounds in Uncle
Joseph’s pocket.
6. But if Pitman is only a dishonest man, the presence of this
bill may lead him to keep the whole thing dark and throw the body
into the New Cut.
7. Yes, but if Pitman is dishonest and finds the bill, he will
know who Joseph is, and he may blackmail me.
7. Yes, but if I am right about Uncle Masterman, I can blackmail
Michael.
8. But I can’t blackmail Michael (which is, besides, a very
dangerous thing to do) until I find out.
8. Worse luck!
9. The leather business will soon want money for current
expenses, and I have none to give.
9. But the leather business is a sinking ship.
10. Yes, but it’s all the ship I have.
10. A fact.
11. John will soon want money, and I have none to give.
11.
12. And the venal doctor will want money down.
12.
13. And if Pitman is dishonest and don’t send me to gaol, he will
want a fortune.
13.
‘O, this seems to be a very one-sided business,’ exclaimed Morris.
‘There’s not so much in this method as I was led to think.’ He crumpled
the paper up and threw it down; and then, the next moment, picked it
up again and ran it over. ‘It seems it’s on the financial point that
my position is weakest,’ he reflected. ‘Is there positively no way of
raising the wind? In a vast city like this, and surrounded by all the
resources of civilization, it seems not to be conceived! Let us have
no more precipitation. Is there nothing I can sell? My collection of
signet--’ But at the thought of scattering these loved treasures the
blood leaped into Morris’s check. ‘I would rather die!’ he exclaimed,
and, cramming his hat upon his head, strode forth into the streets.
‘I MUST raise funds,’ he thought. ‘My uncle being dead, the money in
the bank is mine, or would be mine but for the cursed injustice that has
pursued me ever since I was an orphan in a commercial academy. I know
what any other man would do; any other man in Christendom would forge;
although I don’t know why I call it forging, either, when Joseph’s dead,
and the funds are my own. When I think of that, when I think that my
uncle is really as dead as mutton, and that I can’t prove it, my gorge
rises at the injustice of the whole affair. I used to feel bitterly
about that seven thousand eight hundred pounds; it seems a trifle now!
Dear me, why, the day before yesterday I was comparatively happy.’
And Morris stood on the sidewalk and heaved another sobbing sigh.
‘Then there’s another thing,’ he resumed; ‘can I? Am I able? Why didn’t
I practise different handwritings while I was young? How a fellow
regrets those lost opportunities when he grows up! But there’s
one comfort: it’s not morally wrong; I can try it on with a
clear conscience, and even if I was found out, I wouldn’t greatly
care--morally, I mean. And then, if I succeed, and if Pitman is staunch,
there’s nothing to do but find a venal doctor; and that ought to be
simple enough in a place like London. By all accounts the town’s
alive with them. It wouldn’t do, of course, to advertise for a corrupt
physician; that would be impolitic. No, I suppose a fellow has simply to
spot along the streets for a red lamp and herbs in the window, and
then you go in and--and--and put it to him plainly; though it seems a
delicate step.’
He was near home now, after many devious wanderings, and turned up
John Street. As he thrust his latchkey in the lock, another mortifying
reflection struck him to the heart.
‘Not even this house is mine till I can prove him dead,’ he snarled, and
slammed the door behind him so that the windows in the attic rattled.
Night had long fallen; long ago the lamps and the shop-fronts had begun
to glitter down the endless streets; the lobby was pitch--dark; and, as
the devil would have it, Morris barked his shins and sprawled all his
length over the pedestal of Hercules. The pain was sharp; his temper was
already thoroughly undermined; by a last misfortune his hand closed on
the hammer as he fell; and, in a spasm of childish irritation, he turned
and struck at the offending statue. There was a splintering crash.
‘O Lord, what have I done next?’ wailed Morris; and he groped his way
to find a candle. ‘Yes,’ he reflected, as he stood with the light in
his hand and looked upon the mutilated leg, from which about a pound of
muscle was detached. ‘Yes, I have destroyed a genuine antique; I may be
in for thousands!’ And then there sprung up in his bosom a sort of angry
hope. ‘Let me see,’ he thought. ‘Julia’s got rid of--, there’s nothing
to connect me with that beast Forsyth; the men were all drunk, and
(what’s better) they’ve been all discharged. O, come, I think this is
another case of moral courage! I’ll deny all knowledge of the thing.’
A moment more, and he stood again before the Hercules, his lips sternly
compressed, the coal-axe and the meat-cleaver under his arm. The next,
he had fallen upon the packing-case. This had been already seriously
undermined by the operations of Gideon; a few well-directed blows, and
it already quaked and gaped; yet a few more, and it fell about Morris in
a shower of boards followed by an avalanche of straw.
And now the leather-merchant could behold the nature of his task: and at
the first sight his spirit quailed. It was, indeed, no more ambitious a
task for De Lesseps, with all his men and horses, to attack the hills
of Panama, than for a single, slim young gentleman, with no previous
experience of labour in a quarry, to measure himself against that
bloated monster on his pedestal. And yet the pair were well encountered:
on the one side, bulk--on the other, genuine heroic fire.
‘Down you shall come, you great big, ugly brute!’ cried Morris aloud,
with something of that passion which swept the Parisian mob against the
walls of the Bastille. ‘Down you shall come, this night. I’ll have none
of you in my lobby.’
The face, from its indecent expression, had particularly animated the
zeal of our iconoclast; and it was against the face that he began his
operations. The great height of the demigod--for he stood a fathom
and half in his stocking-feet--offered a preliminary obstacle to this
attack. But here, in the first skirmish of the battle, intellect already
began to triumph over matter. By means of a pair of library steps,
the injured householder gained a posture of advantage; and, with great
swipes of the coal-axe, proceeded to decapitate the brute.
Two hours later, what had been the erect image of a gigantic coal-porter
turned miraculously white, was now no more than a medley of disjected
members; the quadragenarian torso prone against the pedestal; the
lascivious countenance leering down the kitchen stair; the legs, the
arms, the hands, and even the fingers, scattered broadcast on the lobby
floor. Half an hour more, and all the debris had been laboriously carted
to the kitchen; and Morris, with a gentle sentiment of triumph, looked
round upon the scene of his achievements. Yes, he could deny all
knowledge of it now: the lobby, beyond the fact that it was partly
ruinous, betrayed no trace of the passage of Hercules. But it was a
weary Morris that crept up to bed; his arms and shoulders ached, the
palms of his hands burned from the rough kisses of the coal-axe, and
there was one smarting finger that stole continually to his mouth. Sleep
long delayed to visit the dilapidated hero, and with the first peep of
day it had again deserted him.
The morning, as though to accord with his disastrous fortunes, dawned
inclemently. An easterly gale was shouting in the streets; flaws of rain
angrily assailed the windows; and as Morris dressed, the draught from
the fireplace vividly played about his legs.
‘I think,’ he could not help observing bitterly, ‘that with all I have
to bear, they might have given me decent weather.’
There was no bread in the house, for Miss Hazeltine (like all women left
to themselves) had subsisted entirely upon cake. But some of this was
found, and (along with what the poets call a glass of fair, cold water)
made up a semblance of a morning meal, and then down he sat undauntedly
to his delicate task.
Nothing can be more interesting than the study of signatures,
written (as they are) before meals and after, during indigestion and
intoxication; written when the signer is trembling for the life of his
child or has come from winning the Derby, in his lawyer’s office, or
under the bright eyes of his sweetheart. To the vulgar, these seem never
the same; but to the expert, the bank clerk, or the lithographer, they
are constant quantities, and as recognizable as the North Star to the
night-watch on deck.
To all this Morris was alive. In the theory of that graceful art in
which he was now embarking, our spirited leather-merchant was beyond
all reproach. But, happily for the investor, forgery is an affair
of practice. And as Morris sat surrounded by examples of his uncle’s
signature and of his own incompetence, insidious depression stole upon
his spirits. From time to time the wind wuthered in the chimney at his
back; from time to time there swept over Bloomsbury a squall so dark
that he must rise and light the gas; about him was the chill and the
mean disorder of a house out of commission--the floor bare, the sofa
heaped with books and accounts enveloped in a dirty table-cloth, the
pens rusted, the paper glazed with a thick film of dust; and yet these
were but adminicles of misery, and the true root of his depression lay
round him on the table in the shape of misbegotten forgeries.
‘It’s one of the strangest things I ever heard of,’ he complained. ‘It
almost seems as if it was a talent that I didn’t possess.’ He went once
more minutely through his proofs. ‘A clerk would simply gibe at them,’
said he. ‘Well, there’s nothing else but tracing possible.’
He waited till a squall had passed and there came a blink of scowling
daylight. Then he went to the window, and in the face of all John Street
traced his uncle’s signature. It was a poor thing at the best. ‘But it
must do,’ said he, as he stood gazing woefully on his handiwork. ‘He’s
dead, anyway.’ And he filled up the cheque for a couple of hundred and
sallied forth for the Anglo-Patagonian Bank.
There, at the desk at which he was accustomed to transact business,
and with as much indifference as he could assume, Morris presented the
forged cheque to the big, red-bearded Scots teller. The teller seemed to
view it with surprise; and as he turned it this way and that, and even
scrutinized the signature with a magnifying-glass, his surprise appeared
to warm into disfavour. Begging to be excused for a moment, he
passed away into the rearmost quarters of the bank; whence, after an
appreciable interval, he returned again in earnest talk with a superior,
an oldish and a baldish, but a very gentlemanly man.
‘Mr Morris Finsbury, I believe,’ said the gentlemanly man, fixing Morris
with a pair of double eye-glasses.
‘That is my name,’ said Morris, quavering. ‘Is there anything wrong.
‘Well, the fact is, Mr Finsbury, you see we are rather surprised at
receiving this,’ said the other, flicking at the cheque. ‘There are no
effects.’
‘No effects?’ cried Morris. ‘Why, I know myself there must be
eight-and-twenty hundred pounds, if there’s a penny.’
‘Two seven six four, I think,’ replied the gentlemanly man; ‘but it was
drawn yesterday.’
‘Drawn!’ cried Morris.
‘By your uncle himself, sir,’ continued the other. ‘Not only that, but
we discounted a bill for him for--let me see--how much was it for, Mr
Bell?’
‘Eight hundred, Mr Judkin,’ replied the teller.
‘Bent Pitman!’ cried Morris, staggering back.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Mr Judkin.
‘It’s--it’s only an expletive,’ said Morris.
‘I hope there’s nothing wrong, Mr Finsbury,’ said Mr Bell.
‘All I can tell you,’ said Morris, with a harsh laugh,’ is that the
whole thing’s impossible. My uncle is at Bournemouth, unable to move.’
‘Really!’ cried Mr Bell, and he recovered the cheque from Mr Judkin.
‘But this cheque is dated in London, and today,’ he observed. ‘How d’ye
account for that, sir?’
‘O, that was a mistake,’ said Morris, and a deep tide of colour dyed his
face and neck.
‘No doubt, no doubt,’ said Mr Judkin, but he looked at his customer
enquiringly.
‘And--and--’ resumed Morris, ‘even if there were no effects--this is a
very trifling sum to overdraw--our firm--the name of Finsbury, is surely
good enough for such a wretched sum as this.’
‘No doubt, Mr Finsbury,’ returned Mr Judkin; ‘and if you insist I will
take it into consideration; but I hardly think--in short, Mr Finsbury,
if there had been nothing else, the signature seems hardly all that we
could wish.’
‘That’s of no consequence,’ replied Morris nervously. ‘I’ll get my uncle
to sign another. The fact is,’ he went on, with a bold stroke, ‘my uncle
is so far from well at present that he was unable to sign this cheque
without assistance, and I fear that my holding the pen for him may have
made the difference in the signature.’
Mr Judkin shot a keen glance into Morris’s face; and then turned and
looked at Mr Bell.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘it seems as if we had been victimized by a swindler.
Pray tell Mr Finsbury we shall put detectives on at once. As for this
cheque of yours, I regret that, owing to the way it was signed, the
bank can hardly consider it--what shall I say?--businesslike,’ and he
returned the cheque across the counter.
Morris took it up mechanically; he was thinking of something very
different.
‘In a--case of this kind,’ he began, ‘I believe the loss falls on us; I
mean upon my uncle and myself.’
‘It does not, sir,’ replied Mr Bell; ‘the bank is responsible, and
the bank will either recover the money or refund it, you may depend on
that.’
Morris’s face fell; then it was visited by another gleam of hope.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said, ‘you leave this entirely in my hands.
I’ll sift the matter. I’ve an idea, at any rate; and detectives,’ he
added appealingly, ‘are so expensive.’
‘The bank would not hear of it,’ returned Mr Judkin. ‘The bank stands to
lose between three and four thousand pounds; it will spend as much more
if necessary. An undiscovered forger is a permanent danger. We shall
clear it up to the bottom, Mr Finsbury; set your mind at rest on that.’
‘Then I’ll stand the loss,’ said Morris boldly. ‘I order you to abandon
the search.’ He was determined that no enquiry should be made.
‘I beg your pardon,’ returned Mr Judkin, ‘but we have nothing to do with
you in this matter, which is one between your uncle and ourselves. If
he should take this opinion, and will either come here himself or let me
see him in his sick-room--’
‘Quite impossible,’ cried Morris.
‘Well, then, you see,’ said Mr Judkin, ‘how my hands are tied. The whole
affair must go at once into the hands of the police.’
Morris mechanically folded the cheque and restored it to his
pocket--book.
‘Good--morning,’ said he, and scrambled somehow out of the bank.
‘I don’t know what they suspect,’ he reflected; ‘I can’t make them
out, their whole behaviour is thoroughly unbusinesslike. But it doesn’t
matter; all’s up with everything. The money has been paid; the police
are on the scent; in two hours that idiot Pitman will be nabbed--and the
whole story of the dead body in the evening papers.’
If he could have heard what passed in the bank after his departure he
would have been less alarmed, perhaps more mortified.
‘That was a curious affair, Mr Bell,’ said Mr Judkin.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Mr Bell, ‘but I think we have given him a fright.’
‘O, we shall hear no more of Mr Morris Finsbury,’ returned the other;
‘it was a first attempt, and the house have dealt with us so long that
I was anxious to deal gently. But I suppose, Mr Bell, there can be no
mistake about yesterday? It was old Mr Finsbury himself?’
‘There could be no possible doubt of that,’ said Mr Bell with a chuckle.
‘He explained to me the principles of banking.’
‘Well, well,’ said Mr Judkin. ‘The next time he calls ask him to step
into my room. It is only proper he should be warned.’